Page 92 of Knotted By my Pack
She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a look. “You’re coming home with me. I’m feeding you, and then you’re going to sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll pick this all up again.”
There’s a pause. Then her face softens and she takes a step forward, resting her forehead on my chest. Her body folds into mine and I wrap my arms around her, fitting us together like this is where we’ve always belonged.
“Just hold me for a minute?” she whispers.
I close my eyes and press my mouth to her hair. “Of course, baby.”
Her hands slide around my back, and I swear something settles in me that hasn’t been steady in years.
I don’t push her to talk. I don’t ask her what she’s thinking. I just hold her like I mean it. Like I don’t want to let go. Because I don’t.
After a moment, she tilts her chin up. Her eyes are red, but clear. Her mouth parts slightly. I lower my head and kiss her. It’s slow, unhurried—not a claim, not a demand. Just a promise that she’s not alone tonight. Not with me here.
She leans into it, hands fisting the fabric of my shirt. I cradle the back of her head. When we pull apart, there’s no rush between us. Just her eyes finding mine again like she’s seeing me in a new light.
We walk out together, the scent of smoke and sugar trailing us. The bakery may still need repairs, but tonight, she’s not staying in the wreckage.
She’s coming home with me.
I expect her to talk to me, but she’s quiet the entire drive there. We walk into my house, the door clicking shut behind us, and she pauses at the threshold like she’s not sure she belongs. Her eyes scan the space, then land on me.
“I don’t want to sit on any of your surfaces looking this way.”
“I don’t mind it,” I tell her. “Besides, we have fucked on these seats so…”
“I feel icky still,” she murmurs, rubbing her arms like she wants to scrub the day off her skin.
“Head upstairs,” I tell her gently. “Take your time in the shower. I’ll start dinner with whatever we’ve got.”
She hesitates, giving me that small, worn look like she’s too tired to argue but not quite ready to let someone else carry the evening.
“Is that okay?” I ask.
She nods slowly.
“Good.” I watch her climb the stairs, every step soft and slow, her shoulders still curled in from all the tension.
Once she disappears into the bathroom, I turn toward the kitchen and roll my sleeves up. My palms still carry the scent of her skin, and it lingers as I scrub my hands at the sink.
I juice two oranges, then toss in some ginger, ice, and a splash of coconut water. She needs something to replenish her.
I sip from my juice as I start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. Eggs. Spinach. Tomatoes. Simple, but warm. Nourishing.
I hear the water cut off upstairs just as I set the pan on the stove. I make a mental note to shower after her, but right now, she comes first. I’m stirring the mixture when I hear her call my name.
I turn everything off and head up the stairs, catching her voice again, softer this time. My feet are quiet against the wood. The door to the bedroom is half-open.
And then I see her.
She’s standing there in nothing but a towel that barely reaches mid-thigh. Her hair is wet and curling at the ends, skin glowing with moisture. My cock hardens instantly. I swallow, standing there like an idiot, unable to look away.
“What is this?” I ask, voice low, rough.
She doesn’t say anything.
She drops the towel.
“No,” I groan, stepping forward, jaw clenching at the sight of her fully bare. “You need sustenance.”
